


Nervous Habits

by bixgirl1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attraction, Auror Partners, Fingering, Housemates, Implied spanking, M/M, POV First Person, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 14:20:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20310928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/pseuds/bixgirl1
Summary: Potter has a few nervous habits. Draco's developed his own, to cope.





	Nervous Habits

**Author's Note:**

> For Corie's fb prompt of "spatula, amused, and bedroom". 
> 
> Unbeta-ed.

_Smack, smack, smack._

Circe, that sound drives me mad. 

Potter is forever _smacking_ — his wand against his palm, a file folder against the outside of his trousered thigh. His lips, tightly pressed, then pulled apart. It's a nervous habit, I think in an attempt to expend some of his inexhaustible energy. He's the noisiest, twitchiest person I know. 

Tonight it's a spatula. Into his hand, against his chest. There's no need for him to even be _holding_ the damn thing. He's got a roast in the oven, a ladle next to the sauce simmering on the hob. The kitchen is rich with the smells of herbs and spices, the tang of evaporated brandy hovering between us. 

He won't stop rambling. Or moving. Or _smacking._ I could quite cheerfully murder him where he stands.

I am about to come in my pants. 

"So, I was thinking — the O'Sullivans were the third family whose heirlooms were stolen, but the _first_" a pointed smack against the meat of his palm, "who were dosed with the Memory Obscurification Elixir." 

I'm fortunate to be sitting with my lap hidden under the kitchen table. I affect boredom as well as I can. "Yes, _and_?" 

"Well, I don't know," Potter says, a groove dug between his eyebrows. "I get hunches, you connect them."

In theory, it's true; we tend to work well together in that fashion. When I can concentrate. Which I emphatically _cannot_ at the moment. 

_Smack, smack, smack._

Dear God. 

No. Can't wait.

With a forced unclenching of my jaw, I say, "Perhaps. Usually when I haven't been coerced into missing lunch to follow a dead lead down Knockturn Alley with you." A faintly hurt expression flirts with his features, and I can't help but sigh. "Look. I'm going to freshen up; why don't you finish and we can talk after I've eaten."

"But—" Potter pauses, the spatula held aloft. 

Oh, please, please, what I wouldn't give for him to put that down. _Away,_ out of sight. Vanish the fucking thing. We have others, ones that surely won't make that such a sound when slapped onto skin. 

I drag my eyes from it to find Potter looking at me, so intently it takes all of my considerable control not to squirm. Then he huffs a small laugh to himself and gives a tiny shake of his head. His cheeks bloom rosy. "Yeah. Yeah, sorry. I'll call when it's done."

He waits for a second until I raise my eyebrows at the hob, then laughs and turns his back to tend the sauce. Thanking every deity I don't believe in, I take the opportunity to escape. I curse myself as I head down the hall. 

It seemed a good idea at the time, moving in. The lease on my flat was up, Weasley and Granger were moving out of Potter's in favour of their own place. Potter and I had been working together long enough to know we could get along. The fact that I found him fit seemed irrelevant. Who didn't? But I hadn't stopped to consider how many of my fantasies he played into. How that might affect things.

Or, fine, I hadn't _wanted_ to stop and consider. Whatever.

I shut the door to my room — too hard, everything echoes in this place — and fumble my flies open with shaking fingers. He's got his nervous habits, and I've got mine. Sweet Merlin, I'm so hard and sensitive, I hiss just brushing my fingers over the dripping head of my cock. Shoving my trousers and pants around my thighs, I lurch unevenly to my bed and fall face-down onto it. My hand is wedged, perfectly, between my mattress and my body. I bite down on my duvet to muffle my moans and start a frantic fuck into the tunnel of my fist. 

Does he _know_, what the smacking sounds like? _Could_ he? Sometimes I think he has to; sometimes he looks at me the way he just did, and I'm almost certain it clicks. He's such a brilliant Auror, I never know whether to be grateful or horrified that he can be so unobservant about other matters. That he doesn't realise I'm a fucking slag for him. That the lift of one of those dark brows makes my whole body throb. Fuck, it took me nearly a day to leave my room after seeing him emerge from the loo in just a towel for the first time, golden skin still beaded with clinging droplets water, the slender feathering of hair below his belly button damp. 

Oh, god. Oh, _Merlin._ Awkwardly thumbing the head of my cock, I hear his name fall from my lips. I'm so close. So wet. I tighten my fist. 

Think of that bulge behind the towel. Think of that improbably green gaze staring down while he pumps his cock into you. Think of the _smack, smack, smack_ of that spatula or, better yet, that nimble hand, connecting with your _achingly_ reddened— 

"Malfoy?" 

It's choked. Disbelieving. Oh no. Nononono. 

Turning my cheek, I see Potter standing in my doorway, face red — those eyes wide and astonished. Dumbfounded. Oh fuck. Oh _fuck,_ it makes my hips snap harder, my cock poking through my fist, the head rubbing the satin of my duvet. My bollocks tingling, rising to hug my groin. Stop, Draco, _stop!_

I can't. I come with a small, unspooling yelp, a whistle of air like a ready kettle. Potter's eyes grow even larger as my prick pulses in my hand, under me, in front of him. My arse clenching, spasming, wanting something in it. On it. Wanting his weight, and the _smack, smack, smack_ of his body against mine. My orgasm drags out. If I'd been on my back, I'd probably have shot all the way up to my chin at the sight: Potter staring at me, flushed and gorgeous, that stupid spatula still in his hand. 

Taking a step into my room. 

"Oh f-f-f-_fuck!_" Groaning, I stop trying to fight. I ride the crest, let it ebb. Push my face back into the mattress when it's over. 

My heartbeat is very loud in my ears. My face is scorching. 

In the silence that follows, I breathlessly manage, "Do we no longer _knock_, anymore?"

"I did." Potter gulps, and then, inexplicably, takes another step into my room. "Twice. Then I heard—"

There's nothing to do but brazen it out. Ignoring my arse on display, I lift my head with effort and glare at him. "I've heard you wanking, too. But I didn't think that _not walking in_ on such activities needed to be written into our sublease." 

"You said my name."

Okay, that didn't work. I bury my face back into my mattress. I'll have to move. I hear the West End has some nice properties available.

"Moaned it," Potter continues. "Like you… Like an invitation." His voice is— rough. Low. _Closer._ Wait, what? "Like you wanted me to come inside."

"_Fuck._" My prick jerks again with the skitter of an aftershock as Potter's fingertips land on the bare underside crease of my left buttock. Gently, curiously. This cannot be happening. Did I want him to come inside? Do I, is that what he's asking? Salazar's tits, _yes._ I haven't even gone soft. 

I could have taken to wanking around the house a year ago. 

"Malfoy." Potter's fingers drift inward; his thumb presses into muscle, spreading my cheeks just a touch. His breath catches. "Christ," he mutters, stifled, "look at that. What a pretty little arsehole you've got. I've wondered. Imagined. Thought about fucking you. Eating you. You've no idea how much I've thought about it. But I thought you didn't... D'you…? Can I…?" 

I've braced myself for death at his hand too many times. Of late, I'd convinced myself it would happen as result of his reckless courage in the field, from having to throw myself in front of him. I never once considered I'd be brought to the brink from the dazed quality to his voice, or his slow petting strokes over my rim. His almost polite, trailing enquiry as he massages it with his thumb. 

Another moan tears from my throat into my duvet. I lift my head again. Those eyes, that blush. The _smack_ of my heart against my breastbone. His erection tents his trousers, heavy and leaning towards his hip. I want to taste it. 

I tilt my hips up. My lungs are tight. "Potter." 

His gaze, riveted on my twitching hole, darts up to my face. He bites his lip. _Don't_, I want to tell him, _let me._

Instead, I push my arse against his encroaching thumb, and say, shuddering, "Get rid of your clothes. But…"

"What?" He breathes it, eyes falling to the dry breach of his thumbtip into me, then back up. His throat works. Mine does, too. Circling his thumb, just barely inside me, he says, "Malfoy, _what."_

I have no idea where my smile comes from, but I don't even want to hide it. A hint of amusement touches me. Suddenly, I'm not nervous at all. 

I meet his eyes and say, "Keep the spatula." 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are lovely. <3
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](bixgirl1.tumblr.com) now, too! *waves*

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Nervous Habits](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23663497) by [artichaud](https://archiveofourown.org/users/artichaud/pseuds/artichaud)


End file.
